


To Kill a Mockingbird

by QueenInTheSouth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, F/M, Gen, If You Think This Has A Happy Ending You Haven't Been Paying Attention, POV Sansa, Sansa-centric, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-01-26 05:43:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12550448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenInTheSouth/pseuds/QueenInTheSouth
Summary: The idea of breaking through his skin with the valyrian steel and piercing his flesh until he bled out filled her with a mixture of horror and anguish. Sansa wasn’t a murderer.Would his blood paint her hands of crimson, and if so, could she ever wash it all away?





	1. Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just needed to write Sansa's POV (and what she might have felt) about Petyr's trial and death. You know, for catharsis!  
> Let me know if there's any English mistake. I'm from Argentina so it's not my native language.

 

_Sometimes when I try to understand a person's motives, I play a little game: I assume the worst. What's the worst reason they could possibly have for saying what they say and doing what they do? Then I ask myself, how well does that reason explain what they say and what they do?_

She was certain that her sister would never hurt her. It didn’t matter how long they had been apart, or how much they had changed. Even those Arya’s victim’s faces didn’t matter. Blood is thicker than water, and even with their differences, Arya was blood of her blood. That bond only became more valuable after so much loneliness and tragedy; Sansa would not let anything or anyone take her family from her again.

What was the worst reason Lord Baelish could possibly have for saying what he said and doing what he did?

Turning the Stark sisters against each other. Getting Arya killed. That way she wouldn’t come between Sansa and Jon, and Sansa would hold the power over the North. That way she wouldn’t come between Sansa and himself, and he would marry her; both her and the North would be his.

He would have done anything in order to make that pretty picture of his, a reality. Sansa knew it.  She knew him too well by then.

Arguing that Arya wanted to steal her place as Lady of Winterfell was one of his mistakes. He didn’t know what he was talking about, didn’t know Arya; the last thing she wanted was to be a _lady._ His other mistake was thinking he could turn Sansa against her own sister. He was underestimating her -or overestimating himself- by believing he could still manipulate her so easily. He had taught her too much and the student surpassed the master.

Littlefinger’s tactics wouldn’t do in Winterfell; a single mockingbird couldn’t take down a pack of direwolves.

 

* * *

 

 “Where did you find the letter?”

“Littlefinger had it hidden in your chambers. I let him see me take it. He knew I was spying on him, but he didn’t know that I knew that he knew”.

* * *

 

Bran’s brown eyes came back to normal and the three eyed raven told his sisters what he saw: Littlefinger was the one who tried to get him killed, and he put the same dagger on Ned’s throat, betraying him and Catelyn. Littlefinger triggered the Stark – Lannister conflict that ended up destroying both families. He unleashed the chaos and climbed upon it.

“He convinced our aunt Lysa to murder Jon Arryn, and he killed her later. I witnessed it. I defended him. But I didn’t know I was trusting a traitor to our family…” Sansa said, with a knot in her throat.     

“The past is the past” answered Bran monotonously.

 _The future is all that’s worth discussing. –_ The words came in that too familiar accent

 _You,_ my love _, are the future of House Stark._

Sansa tried to shake them off her head.

"He must die" said Arya steadily, as if writing his name on stone for her list.

"Sansa must do it" added Bran, and the oldest girl froze. "She is Lady of Winterfell now."

Silence hovered upon the three Starks. Sansa stared at the dagger that rested upon her bedside table.

 _With that dagger, he sent an assassin after my brother –_ she thought – _With that dagger he started the war that destroyed our family. With that dagger, he betrayed Father._

Suddenly she was thirsty for revenge; she would have taken the damn weapon and headed to the Lord’s chambers – he would open the door to her the same way someone opens the curtains to let the sunlight in – and she would have ripped his chest with it, just to see if he had a heart at all. Or she would have slit his throat; his voice and his words were his most dangerous weapon after all. Oh, what a pleasure, to silence him once and for all! Cut his tongue and vocal chords, with which so many times he created songs to enchant her.  

_Life is not a song, sweetling. Someday you’ll learn that, to your sorrow._

And learn she did.

However, the idea of breaking through his skin with the valyrian steel and piercing his flesh until he bled out filled her with a mixture of horror and anguish. Sansa wasn’t a murderer. Even though she would have never doubted about killing Joffrey or Ramsay -in fact she was the one who threw the hounds at the northern bastard-, she wasn’t sure of being able to kill Petyr Baelish. What if, once in front of him, she couldn’t bring herself to do it?

“I will sentence him to die. But I will not execute him myself”.

 _“The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword”;_ quoted the youngest Stark "Father's words."

 But it was another lesson that she remembered:

  _Clean hands, Sansa. Whatever you do, make certain your hands are clean._

Would his blood paint her hands of crimson, and if so, could she ever wash it all away?

“I’m no _man_. And I’m no warrior. I’ll do what honor and duty command, but I’ll do it my way. I’m the only one who actually knows Littlefinger; I’ll make him fall into his own trap. But I don’t want his blood on my hands”.

"I’ll do it gladly, then… with his own dagger” replied Arya.

Sansa knew she couldn’t blame her for wanting revenge, but it was impossible not to cringe at the smirk on her little sister’s face as she took the dagger. How many people and in which ways had she killed?

“Arya… make it quick”.

The words came like a whisper from her mouth before she could stop them. She felt ashamed as her siblings set their eyes on her.

 "You know he deserves a slow, painful death".

Once again, she couldn’t blame Arya. Yet Sansa just wouldn’t let that happen. She had enjoyed every second of both Joffrey’s and Ramsay’s deaths and she knew Lord Baelish deserved the sentence, but only the thought of watching him being tortured made her heart ache. Would he scream? Would his eyes shut from the pain, or would they be fixed on hers until their light extinguished?  

Despite all his crimes, Petyr had never been cruel or sadistic to her.

"Arya, _please_ ".

The young girl looked at her, questioningly and confused. _Someday I’ll explain it all –_ promised Sansa’s eyes. Bran’s gaze was calm, and Sansa wondered if her brother understood her, or if he was just king of a total indifference. 

Arya sighed.

"I’ll do it for you."

* * *

 

 

A grey sky, the sun hidden by dark clouds. Winterfell covered in white. The promised winter had come.

Sansa contemplated that place she called home, which had been taken from her not that long ago, though it seemed an eternity.  And she thought she’d never get it back.

_The North will be yours. Do you believe me?_

It was true. The North was hers now.

She remembered the last time she saw snow after being hostage in King’s Landing. It was at the Eyrie, a few days after her arrival. She was at the garden, gazing at the falling snowflakes in complete wonder, and remembering her Winterfell she built it from the snow at her feet, as if it was raised from the debris. It had surprised her that she still memorized every part of the castle. When her cousin Robin kicked it down, she felt all over again the grief of having her home torn apart.

_\- I was trying to remember what everything looked like. I’ll never see it again._

_\- A lot can happen between now and never. If you want to build a better home, first you must demolish the old one._

That was the day “uncle Petyr” had kissed her for the first time, right there on the comforting and familiar snow. Still she didn’t belong to the Vale, neither to Petyr Baelish. Now she understood, he wanted her to burn down the memory of her old home, to make a better one reborn from the ashes… with him.

Not long ago, the thing Sansa wanted the most was to get out of those grey walls of Winterfell and go somewhere where the sun shun bright on a clear blue sky. Never would have she imagined how much she’d miss the cold snow.

_\- Back then I only thought about what I wanted, never about what I had. I was a stupid girl._

_\- You were a child._

Anytime she underestimated herself, he’d said the right words to give her confidence and courage. It was weird, Sansa had lost trust in him, yet he helped her believing in herself. He treated her as an equal, never minding the age difference or the fact she was a woman; she had felt his respect and even admiration for her. Were they just sweet words of manipulation, or was there actual honesty in them? Perhaps both.

If it wasn’t for him, the Boltons would still rule the North, Jon would be dead and she would probably be either dead or back in Ramsay’s grasp… A horrible shiver went down her spine.

Sansa had to remember herself that it was Littlefinger who handed her to the Boltons on the first place.  If it wasn’t for him, Ramsay would have never touched her. Although it was true that he didn’t force her, he did manipulate her into thinking she was taking a brave decision to revenge her family.

Yet she believed that he didn’t know about Ramsay. Littlefinger’s eyes would always look inscrutable; no emotion ever reached them. The look in Petyr’s eyes that day they met in Mole’s Town was completely new. He was speechless, but his eyes said everything his voice could not. Sorrow crystallized in tears that wouldn’t fall, as if he was holding them back. And she heard the regret when his voice cracked, and when it was barely a whisper. She could have ordered Brienne to kill him right then, but she didn’t. Even after retrieving the North, not needing him anymore and being able to send him back to the Vale of Arryn, she kept him by her side. The Lady of Winterfell knew that only a fool could trust Littlefinger, but in the dark and secret depths of her heart, Sansa had forgiven Petyr.

However, what Bran had just revealed wasn’t something she could forgive. It wasn’t about her anymore. Her father, her mother, her brothers (the dead and the living), her sister, her House, her home… they were pawns in Littlefinger’s game board. Worst of all, he was trying to make her his teammate, putting the pawns between her fingers and whispering in her ear to play against her kin.   

_There’s no justice in the world. Not unless we make it. You loved your family… avenge them._

Sansa closed her eyes and she could picture the faces of her loved ones.

 _I must be honorable, like Father. I must be as strong as my lady mother. I must be brave, like Robb –_ was the mantra inside her head.

She breathed in deeply till the cold northern air filled her lungs, as if it were the spirits of her dead.

“Have my sister brought to the great hall” she ordered to the one guard that was standing near.

She had decided to stop being a bystander long ago. Sansa Stark was a player in the game of thrones, and her turn to make a move had come, just like winter.


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!  
> I took my sweet, sweet time writing this second chapter. My brain and my time have been too consumed by college and the rehearsals of a play I’m in. But I’m on summer vacations now (yay) so the next part won’t take so damn long.  
> So, this chapter is both Sansa's and Petyr's POV of the same events. I really wanted to write it from both of their perspectives, and it just felt better like this than mixing the two POVs. Hope it's not too dull.  
> PS: I know book!Petyr’s eyes are grey-green and book!Sansa’s are blue, but since this is show!Petyr and show!Sansa I’m writing, I’m keeping Aidan’s grey-blue and Sophie’s green shade, just because I like to obssess over the little details. Isn’t it funny how their colours are switched? Just noticed that. Anyway, the same goes for Isaac's brown ones instead of Bran's Tully look.

_Did you see the light in my heart?_

_Did you see the sweat on my brow?_

_Did you see the fear in my heart?_

_Did you see me bleeding out?_

 

 _I loved you in the best way possible._

 

_(No Rest by Dry the River: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3iUHfAChgBA )_

**SANSA**

The Great Hall was crowded when Sansa walked in, her expression blank, her eyes fixed on the large wooden table where her brother sat waiting for her. She passed by Lord Royce and the Vale army, and without looking, she knew where _he_ was… up against the stone wall and lurking in the shadows, unaware that soon the spotlight would be on him. She could feel his gaze upon her and the way his body shift from the wall, turning almost imperceptibly towards her when she passed him by, ignoring him. She couldn’t look at him.

Though crowded, the room was in complete silence. Sansa felt every pair of eyes set on her as she walked to the wooden table, though she didn’t meet any of them, except for her brother’s. She let those dark eyes spread their calmness and detachment into her own. As she sat next to Bran, the realization that she wasn’t alone made her feel stronger.

Arya came in almost instantly, escorted by two guards. She stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by men both from the North and the East, facing her sister and brother. Sansa admired how collected she seemed.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Arya asked emotionlessly.

It was as if she was giving her one last chance to back down. The final decision was hers to take and there would be no point of return once it was done. The oldest girl was speechless for a couple of seconds, holding her breath, not wanting to find out the answer. The only thing that mattered and she knew for sure was that it had to be done.

“It’s not what I want” she said as she looked down for just a second “It’s what honor demands”.

“And what does honor demand?”

“That I defend my family from those who would harm us. That I defend the North from those who would betray us.” From _him._

“Alright then.  Get on with it.”

Yes, she had to get on with it as quickly as possible. She took a deep breath and, still looking at her sister, spoke coldly:

“You stand accused of murder. You stand accused of treason. How do you answer to these charges…” then, for the first time since entering the great hall, her eyes shifted to the slender man who was staring at Arya “… Lord Baelish?”

It was almost funny the way his face, always so unreadable and unaffected, looked completely startled, taken off guard. Eyebrows shot up, eyes wide open, jaw dropped; that smirk of his finally erased. She held his gaze and waited for his reply. But there was none.

“My sister asked you a question.”

Sansa was indeed amazed at Arya’s calmness and soft voice, so uncharacteristically of her. She was smirking at Littlefinger, enjoying it, the way a cat enjoys playing with its prey. He was a little bird trapped.

“Lady Sansa, forgive me…” Littlefinger finally replied “I’m a bit confused.”

_Always keep your foes confused, remember? I came to play the game._

“Which charges confuse you?” she asked in sarcasm “Let’s start with the simplest: you murdered our aunt Lysa Arryn; you pushed her through the Moon Door and watched her fall. Do you deny it?”

“I did it to protect you” was Littlefinger's answer after a couple of seconds.  

“You did it to take power in the Vale” she would no longer fall for the _I want to protect you_ bullshit.  “Earlier you conspired to murder Jon Arryn; you gave Lysa tears of lys to poison him. Do you deny it?”

“Whatever your aunt might have told you… she was a troubled woman.”  Littlefinger replied, coming out from the shadows and stepping in front of the wooden table, then turning to the rest of the room “She imagined enemies everywhere.” Now he was playing the good old _Crazy Aunt Lysa_ card.

“You had aunt Lysa sent a letter to our parents telling them it was the Lannisters who murdered Jon Arryn when really it was you; the conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters it was you who started it. Do you deny it?” Sansa accused him, the words coming out of her mouth without taking a breath.

“I know of no such letter” she knew Littlefinger was lying right to her face.

“You conspired with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon to betray our father, Ned Stark; thanks to your treachery he was imprisoned and later executed on false charges of treason.” He was looking at her astonished, and gave a gentle head shake. But she was having none of it, spitting the words at him, filled with anger as tears started watering her eyes, finally saying out loud all the things he have done. “Do you deny it?”

 “I deny it!” Littlefinger declared loudly, louder than she ever heard him. But he wasn’t holding her gaze anymore. He turned his back on her and spoke to the crowd. “None of you were there to see what happened! None of you knows the truth.”

_Surprise._

“You held a knife to his throat” soft-spoken Bran intervened. The older man froze and turned around to look at him, bewildered. “You said _I did warn you not to trust me_ ”. Lord Baelish’s eyes squinted, his mouth a thin line, his head cocked in confusion.

“You told our mother this knife belonged to Tyrion Lannister…” spoke Arya with a grin on her face, taking out the dagger “but that was another one of your lies. It was yours.”

He seemed lost standing there, trapped between a wolf ready to sink the fangs into his throat and a raven that would peak out his eyes.

 “Lady Sansa,” Lord Baelish desperately approached her, almost slamming his hands on the wooden table, so his face was at the same level as hers. “I’ve known you since you were a girl. I’ve protected you.”

“Protected me? By selling me to the Boltons” she shot back, a pain inside her at remembering his betrayal.

_I believed in you but you sold me out like cattle to the slaughterhouse._

For a second, Lord Baelish looked like he didn’t know what to say.

“If we could speak alone… I can explain everything” he almost begged, piercing into her with his grey-blue eyes.

 Sansa wouldn’t give him that. She was done with hearing his excuses, his lies, his manipulations. She was certain nothing he said could change her mind and she didn’t want to be alone with him.

“Sometimes when I’m trying to understand a person’s motives I play a little game: I assume the worst.” She used his lesson against him. His eyes looked watery, and then closed as his head hanged in defeat. Lord Baelish straightened up, looking at her again. “What’s the worst reason you have for turning me against my sister? That’s what you do, isn’t it? That’s what you’ve always done: turn family against family, turn sister against sister; that’s what you did to our mother and aunt Lysa, and that’s what you tried to do to us” as she talked, Arya stepped forward.

“Sansa, please”

“I’m a slow learner, it’s true. But I learn.”

“Give me a chance to defend myself” Lord Baelish asked “I deserve that”

But she just sat back and averted her eyes from him, looking down. The decision was taken; she had no doubts about it. She knew Bran’s visions were accurate. Everything finally made sense.

 “I am Lord Protector of the Vale and I command you to escort me safely back to the Eyrie” she heard him demanding.

“I think not” said Lord Royce in a grave voice.

The small man stood in the center of the crowded room, facing right into Sansa’s direction.

“Sansa! I beg you!” Lord Baelish dropped to his knees, his voice breathy. It reminded her of their encounter at Mole's Town, but this time she wouldn’t be merciful “I loved your mother since the time I was a boy”

 “And yet you betrayed her” she accused. How dared he speak of her lady mother after everything he had done?

His mouth twitched, his teary eyes never leaving hers. He didn’t deny it, didn’t made up an excuse.

“I loved you… more than anyone” Petyr declared, his voice breaking, the last words whimpered. She almost pitied him. 

It was the first time he said those words to her, but it didn’t surprise Sansa at all. She had known it for a while, after the Battle of the Bastards. What surprised her was the past tense. Was he accepting his death? Or was he implying that he didn’t love her anymore? She didn’t expect the _more than anyone_ part, since that included her mother. Looking down at Petyr on his knees, his grey-blue eyes drowned in what looked like sorrow and devotion and tears running down the crinkles on his face, Sansa couldn’t deny his love for her. But that love didn’t do her any good.

 “And yet, you betrayed me.”

And his betrayal hurt. She had trusted him, she even cared for him, and he had been betraying her from the start. She felt tears coming to her eyes, but held them back. _I have to be strong like my lady mother_. Still, there was no need in making this any longer. It had to be done. She wasn’t enjoying his cries, his begging. She would at least give him the mercy of ending this humiliation.

“When you brought me back to Winterfell you told me there’s no justice in the world, not unless we make it” she continued, rising from her chair and standing tall, looking down on the small man still on his knees. She nodded to Arya. “Thank you for all your many lessons, Lord Baelish…”

 Petyr glanced at Arya in realization she was the one who’d kill him. Then his pleading eyes returned to Sansa.

“I will never forget them” was Sansa’s farewell, her voice sincere, almost gentle.

Arya walked towards him and he looked desperate. Sansa took a deep breath.

“Sansa-!” Petyr called out one last time before Arya’s strike finally came. His head shot back, rivers of blood splashing out the cut on his throat, making him gag. Sansa fought the urge of looking away.  His hand went to the wound, trying to stop the flood, but it was impossible. His fingers and his rings, his robes and his mockingbird pin… everything was painted scarlet.

Except for his grey-blue eyes, which Sansa never abandoned.

“I…” Petyr tried to say something and she knew it would be honest. Facing death, a man shows his true nature.

But then he fell on his right hand, trying to support himself and kept looking up at her. The left hand on his throat weakened and a spurt of blood came out but his pained eyes were still on hers. He had never looked so vulnerable, and so real. Sansa felt a tug in her heart, an irrational wanting of kneeling next to Petyr and hold him close to her, give him some kind of comfort. But she was the Lady of Winterfell and he was a traitor. So she stood still and watch him struggle, while she let her tears roll down freely, listening to the little gagging sounds as he choked on his own blood.

_Please, just stop._

As if reading her mind and pleasing her wish, Petyr collapsed on the stone floor, his eyes finally leaving hers, his last words left unspoken.

Sansa stood there and watched his dead body face down and scattered over the scarlet pool of his blood. Her breathing heavy, her eyes fixed on him, as if expecting him to get up. But he was dead. Littlefinger, Lord Baelish, Petyr… they were all dead. She didn’t feel joy or relief; neither did she feel sad or upset. She didn’t feel anything at all.

Yet the tears were still rolling down her face.

 

**PETYR**

Petyr Baelish waited with the army of the Vale and some Northern men for Lady Sansa to come in. Her younger brother, the crippled weirdo, was already in his place on the long wooden table at the Great Hall of Winterfell. Petyr didn’t know how Sansa convinced the boy to do what they were about to do, but he was proud of her. He had to admit he was too excited, so close of reaching his goal, and blissful that he gained Sansa’s trust back. He felt like a happy go lucky ray of fucking sunshine. 

Just then, the doors opened and she walked in, alone. Every head in the room turned in her direction, and Petyr marveled on just the sight of her. This wasn’t the sweet summer child that had captivated him years ago at the Hand’s tournament. She was a woman now, the Lady of Winterfell. As he had told her before, command suited her; she looked magnificent as ever, tall and feminine and _powerful_ , the red of her long hair a bright contrast against her pale skin and dark clothes. He could never get used to her beauty; the more he looked, the more it took his breath away. When she walked past him, Petyr felt a magnetic force pulling him in, and had to remember himself to keep his place. Still, he was a little disappointed that she didn’t even throw a furtive glance at him. Maybe he became a little too greedy – too needy – for her attentions.     

His eyes never left her body as she sat next to her brother. His heart fired up as he imagined himself sitting there next to her, instead of the crippled boy.

_Soon._

He genuinely admired how right Sansa looked sitting there. That place belonged to her, not to the bastard. Petyr would happily bend the knee for the _Queen in the North_ … though he’d rather be King with her.      

He kept staring, when the sound of the doors caught his attention. Sansa’s sister entered the room. Petyr studied her, and just like Sansa was the – more beautiful – image of young Cat, this girl was like seeing a living, younger, smaller and beardless version of Eddard Stark. He noticed his valyrian steel dagger on her belt, her sword as well. It didn’t matter; he knew she was skilled but there was no way she could defeat so many knights together. When her grey eyes met his, he smirked. She turned to her sister.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Sansa took a moment to reply, and Petyr almost feared she would back away.

 “It’s not what I want. It’s what honor demands.”

Oh, the Starks, the Tullys and their beloved honors! He could just piss on them all.  What honor did for good old Ned? Nothing but sent him straight to his grave. Honor was like a virus running in their veins and poisoning their blood. Petyr would make sure of injecting the antidote into Sansa.

“Alright then. Get on with it.” He heard the small girl saying. He had to give her some credit and admit she seemed very collected.

_This is it. A step higher on the ladder._

“You stand accused of murder. You stand accused of treason. How do you answer to these charges… Lord Baelish?”

The feeling he had was like walking down a staircase in the dark and missing a step, or like dreaming of falling; a twisted surprise. He did a double take, thinking it must have been his imagination. But Sansa was actually looking straight at him, finally. Her face was blank, her eyes fixed on him. He was speechless, in complete shock. He looked around the room, all the men in complete silence, expecting. Had they planned this all along?

“My sister asked you a question.”

His head shot back to the little Stark girl, who was smirking at him. Then he looked back at Sansa, his hands unfolding. It was the first time in his life he didn’t know what to say.

“Lady Sansa, forgive me… I’m a bit confused.”

_Please tell me what the fuck is happening._

“Which charges confuse you?” she asked in a cold, ironical way. “Let’s start with the simplest: you murdered our aunt Lysa Arryn; you pushed her through the Moon Door and watched her fall. Do you deny it?”

Petyr froze. After he saved her from Lysa and after she lied for him… he never imagined she would tell on him. He knew there was no point in denying it; she was a witness, no one would believe him over her.

“I did it to protect you” he said. It was half the truth.

 “You did it to take power in the Vale” she retorted. That was the other half of the truth. “Earlier you conspired to murder Jon Arryn; you gave Lysa tears of lys to poison him. Do you deny it?”

She must have heard Lysa talking about it. But then, why was she telling on him _now,_ and not back then?

_Because now she’s safe at home and doesn’t need you anymore. She never truly cared, you fool._

He could hear Lysa’s last words, screaming back at him:

_“She’s just like her mother! She will never love you!”_

No. He couldn’t accept defeat, after everything he had accomplished.

“Whatever your aunt might have told you… she was a troubled woman.”  He replied. Sansa had known Lysa; her aunt’s madness was no secret to her. Maybe he could still convince her. The men from the Vale of Arryn also knew Lysa, so he spoke to them as well “She imagined enemies everywhere.”

“You had aunt Lysa send a letter to our parents telling them it was the Lannisters who murdered Jon Arryn when really it was you; the conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters it was you who started it. Do you deny it?”

“I know of no such letter” he lied, holding her gaze. He could only deny it. It was his word against Lysa’s. A dead woman was no threat anymore.

“You conspired with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon to betray our father, Ned Stark; thanks to your treachery he was imprisoned and later executed on false charges of treason.” He almost flinched. How could she know _that?_ In his defense, Petyr had tried to reason with Lord Stark, but he had given him no choice. “Do you deny it?”

He was at Winterfell, they would kill him on the spot if found guilty. Sansa would never forgive him for being involved in her father’s imprisonment.

 “I deny it!” He declared out loud, breaking her gaze. Petyr couldn’t take the _hatred_ in those bright green eyes he was so fond of. “None of you were there to see what happened!” he argued. They couldn’t execute him without proves, which they did not have. “None of you knows the truth.”

“You held a knife to his throat” a soft voice said.

He turned around and found it was Sansa’s brother who had spoken, looking at Petyr with a serene face. “You said _I did warn you not to trust me_ ”.

_What in the seven hells?_

Petyr could not understand how the Stark boy knew that. Just then he remembered when the lad had returned to Winterfell and quoted the “chaos is a ladder” thing… It had shocked him back then, but he let it go. What was he supposed to think? Sansa had not told him much about her younger brother, only that he renounced to his title of Lord of Winterfell. A crippled child without ambition was no threat.

Wrong _. Knowledge is power._ This boy knew things that weren’t supposed to be known, as if being some kind of enlightened whose eyes could see in the dark.  Although Petyr wasn’t a believer in anything magical or supernatural –or religious, for that matter –, if it was true the white walkers and dragons existed, then anything could be possible.

And the boy’s name was Brandon. _Brandon Stark._ Of course he was destined to defeat him. Petyr should have run back to the Vale after talking to him for the first time, when he still had the chance.

_But that would have meant leaving Sansa._

He had been too blind by his want for power, but specially too blind by his want for _her,_ to see what was right in front of him.

 “You told our mother this knife belonged to Tyrion Lannister…” he turned again to look at the middle Stark child. The girl took out his dagger, her grey eyes burning, and a smirk too devilish for such a young face. “But that was another one of your lies. It was yours.”

Was it possible that he had been fooled by the Starks siblings the whole time? Denying his crimes had no sense anymore. The Lady of Winterfell had the upper hand, so he knew the only mind he needed to change was hers.

“Lady Sansa,” he threw himself at the table to face her.  “I’ve known you since you were a girl.” A sweet, innocent thirteen year old who believed in songs and princes. _Where’s that girl now?_ “I’ve protected you.”

He really had. It’s true he took her from King’s Landing for his own self-serving motives, but still, he had _rescued_ her. She would have been dead if it wasn’t for him. He had always treated her with nothing but respect and gentleness. He cared for her like he never did for anyone else. She couldn’t just forget.

“Protected me? By selling me to the Boltons” she answered, and he could see and hear deception in her.

It pained Petyr that she had not forgiven him for marrying her to Ramsay. For that, he was truly sorry; it had been an honest mistake and probably the only thing he’d regret forever. He thought he had made her understand that, but apparently some wounds just wouldn’t heal.

 “If we could speak alone… I can explain everything” he wanted nothing more than to talk in private not with _Lady Stark,_ but with his _Sansa._

_Please. I never meant to do you harm._

 “Sometimes when I’m trying to understand a person’s motives I play a little game: I assume the worst.”  It was like a punch to his gut. He had shared his knowledge with her, his most valuable weapon, and she had it aimed right at him. In another context, he would be extremely proud of Sansa. He couldn’t even hate her. He was the only one to blame, falling for this girl and giving her the power to destroy him. “What’s the worst reason you have for turning me against my sister? That’s what you do, isn’t it? That’s what you’ve always done: turn family against family, turn sister against sister; that’s what you did to our mother and aunt Lysa, and that’s what you tried to do to us.”

He wanted to tell her that he never turned the Tully sisters against each other – not on purpose, anyway –, he wanted to explain to her all those years in Riverrun, what they had done to him…

But he saw Sansa’s sister out the corner of his eye, stepping forward with the dagger in her hand, and lost his train of thought.  

“Sansa, please” those were the two words that kept repeating inside his head.

“I’m a slow learner, it’s true. But I learn.”

“Give me a chance to defend myself.” Surely the Lady of Winterfell would be honorable enough to give him fair trial. “I deserve that.”

Sansa couldn’t just execute him right on the spot, like he was nobody to her, couldn’t she?

She didn’t say a thing, looking at him with those clear, almost translucent eyes, and laid back on her chair. And just when Petyr thought she would give him that, she looked down, ignoring him.

He felt a rush of anger at that, turned his back on her and walked fast towards Lord Royce:

 “I am Lord Protector of the Vale and I command you to escort me safely back to the Eyrie”

“I think not” Lord Royce answered, and Petyr realized there was no one there to help him. He had lost all his power.

He was nothing but the lowborn boy from the Fingers, humiliated by a highborn girl that would rather watch him die than being his.

Catelyn had spared his life all those years ago; surely there was still some of her mother's mercy in Sansa. She had a gentle heart, and he knew he had to mean _something_ for her… Petyr had never been particularly afraid of death – though he did planed to live as long and satisfyingly as possible – in fact he had taken a lot of risks and faced death a couple of times during his lifetime; it was _Sansa sentencing him to die_ what desperate him to the core.

He knew he had to get to her through her compassionate side. He turned around, standing in the middle of the Great Hall, and the moment his eyes met hers he fell on his knees on the hard floor.

“Sansa! I beg you!”   _You want me to beg for my life? If that’s what you want, I will._ “I loved your mother since the time I was a boy.”

For the first time in ages, Petyr could feel the long, awful scar that traveled from collarbone to navel. It stung, as if more than twenty years had done nothing to relieve its burn deep into his being. That duel when he was young hadn’t just marked his body; it had marked his fate. It was like a vicious cycle which he thought he had escaped from, but clearly he did not. For a second, the three Stark children were not there anymore… all he could see were Catelyn, Brandon and Eddard Stark sentencing him to die.  

 “And yet you betrayed her” Sansa said, and it was like having young Cat saying to him: _You betrayed me, Petyr._

He couldn’t even deny it. The scar kept aching… or maybe, it was his heart. Petyr couldn’t tell. He had been concealing his feelings for a long time. Even when he met again with Lady Catelyn he had everything under control, his heart tamed, and his love and suffering only shadows of the past.

Until Sansa. Falling for her was never part of his plan.

“I loved you…” He declared solemnly, but saying it out loud to her broke apart the little dignity he had left, as he added in a whimper “more than anyone.”

He didn’t care being humiliated in a room full of men from the Vale and the North. They didn’t matter to him.

Only Sansa.

But his Lady was like ice, the tender, warm fire he had seen in her now extinguished.

 “And yet, you betrayed me.”

She was right, he knew that. He was very self-aware of the things he had done. Some of them, like trying to turn her against her siblings, he had planned. Others, like having her tortured by Ramsay, he had not. He regretted not having taken better care of her, his want for power and revenge so strong that ended up corrupting his love.

“When you brought me back to Winterfell you told me there’s no justice in the world, not unless we make it” Sansa stood up, forcing him to tilt his chin up to look at her. Had she always been this tall, or was it her new empowerment what made Petyr feel so small? He saw her nodding to her sister, and he was not surprised. For some reason, he knew she would not execute him herself, as the Stark tradition expected. “Thank you for all your many lessons, Lord Baelish…”

  _Please, don’t. Please._

But he couldn’t speak, and deep down, he knew his time had come.

“I will never forget them” she added in a much tender voice, the coldness gone. At that moment, Petyr noticed one single tear rolling down her face. Oddly, the realization that this was hurting her didn’t comfort him at all. It just made his heart clench painfully.  

The young assassin girl approached him silently, petite and agile, holding his dagger. Petyr called out Sansa’s name in one last desperate attempt, and he could swear he saw a flicker of sorrow in her eyes.  But then he felt the cold and harsh valyrian steel breaking his throat. A horrible and stifling pain invaded him as his warm blood spurted out. Petyr covered the wound with his hand and looked back at Sansa. He wanted to speak but the blood gagged him. He fell on his right hand, trying to support himself to keep looking at Sansa, wanting her to be the last thing he saw. Her bright green eyes never left his, her tears flowing as freely as his blood, and he loved her even more, even as he was bleeding for her. Unable to speak, he just hoped she could see it in his eyes.  Then the blood finally choked him, his eyes closing at last. His unsaid words screaming in his mind, hoping she could hear them.

_I am sorry._

 

 


	3. Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was strange seeing him so peaceful, so harmless; she had never even seen him asleep, so it was a curious sight indeed.

“His body must be burnt. Otherwise, it might rise again.” Bran said.

Sansa had never seen a white walker, but she had heard enough of them from both of her brothers. She could picture Petyr Baelish walking on the snow, his face the colour of ash, the blue of his eyes turned icy bright and inhumane, the horrible wound at his throat still open but his blood dried and almost black. His empty stare on her, his cold touch burning off her skin, and his once minty breath now rot and death invading her nostrils.  

 “There’s no need to burn his _face_ …” Arya said.

“What are you talking about?” asked Sansa, though she had a horrible suspicion.

“I could wear it, go to King’s Landing and kill Cersei.”

“You won’t do that.” The older girl replied immediately. Just imagining her little sister wearing Baelish’s face made her skin crawl. To see those eyes and that smirk again… would his voice come out of Arya? Or would his face speak with her voice? Sansa didn’t want to find out.

“Yes, I will. She’s on my list.” The assassin girl said, stubborn as Sansa remembered her. “I will kill her. You can’t stop me.”

“Yes, I can. You won’t wear his face” she argued, trying to keep it cool and disguise her real feels on the matter.

“Why not?” asked Arya, never taking _No_ for an answer. 

_Because I am the Lady of Winterfell and I say so,_ the summer child that Sansa used to be might have responded, but not anymore. In an odd way, it reminded her of how Joffrey used to shout “ _I am the King!”_ every time he tried to make people respect his authority. She wouldn’t do that. She would be clever.   

 “Assuming she hasn’t heard of his death by the time you arrived, it’s been a while since Littlefinger had pledged fealty to House Stark; I’m sure the news must have come to Cersei’s ears. If she saw him, she would kill him on the spot.”

“The time to face Cersei Lannister will come.” Bran spoke, his tone neutral as if prognosticating the weather. “First we must face another enemy... Death.”

“Death is a friend of mine.” Arya answered, which Sansa found annoying and disturbing and sad.

“The Night King is no friend of the living.” The boy said softly but firm.

“Arya, Winterfell needs you. I need you here, we all do.” Sansa added “Besides… don’t you want to see Jon? He’d be devastated if he knew you were here and didn’t wait for him.” If there was one thing that would keep Arya on Winterfell – and her hands off Littlefinger’s face – it was the promise of Jon. Sansa was deliberately manipulating her sister, but she didn’t feel any guilt about it. She could see the realization and change of heart in those Stark grey eyes, and almost smirked proud of herself.

* * *

 

The snowstorm that took place during the trial had passed. The night had yet to come. Sansa stood in Winterfell’s battlements, looking out across the snowy landscape, just like she did before the trial. She waited for her men to summon her. Arya appeared by her side, her light steps making no sound in the snow covered stone. Sansa almost thought they had sent her sister to call for her, but the girl just stood quietly, admiring the view.

“Are you alright?” Arya finally spoke.

“It’s just strange…” answered Sansa, for she could not yet get over the shock, much less comprehend her feelings. “In his own horrible way I believe he loved me.”

Maybe that was the most terrible part, killing someone who loved her. No matter how misplaced or unrequited that affection was.

Arya didn’t make any comment on it, and Sansa was grateful for that.

“You did the right thing.” The small girl only said, as if comforting her.

“You did it.” Sansa replied, in part because she didn’t want to take her sister’s credit, but also because the responsibility for his death was a weight too heavy for her alone to carry.    

“I’m just the executioner. _You_ passed the sentence.” Arya answered looking into her eyes. Sansa knew she was right; the upper hand had been hers. “You’re the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Does that bother you?” Sansa asked, trying to understand her sister better and not wanting to talk about Petyr Baelish anymore.

“I was never going to be as good a lady as you. So I had to be something else.” Arya didn’t quite answer her question, but Sansa still appreciated her honesty. “I never could have survived what you survived.”

“You would have. You’re the strongest person I know.” She said sincerely. Her little sister was a fierce, brave girl and it made her proud.

Arya’s big grey eyes softened, reminding Sansa of their father’s eyes.

“I believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Well… don’t get used to it.” Sansa playfully responded while looking away, as she wasn’t accustomed to this kind of emotional openness with Arya. “You’re still very strange and annoying.”  

She could see out of the corner of her eye the half smile in her sister’s face.

“ _In winter we must protect ourselves. Look after one another.”_ Arya spoke after a brief silence and Sansa smiled, remembering the quote.

“Father” she said, still watching at the white, beautiful landscape that was their home. “ _When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”_

It was strange that she remembered those words. She hadn’t heard them, nor had thought about them, in a long time. They had been far away in the back of her mind, almost forgotten; but they came to her now as a long lost secret, or as a memory from a past life. She had been a lone wolf. And Arya, and Bran, and Jon; they had been lone wolves as well. Each of them going through their own snowstorms and trying to return to the pack, but the distance was far too great for their howls to be heard. Reunited again, they would survive the winds of winter. Sansa was sure about it.

“I miss him.” Arya’s simple three words were full of emotion.

“Me too.”

* * *

 

 

Sansa was standing by herself outside the castle, a guard waiting for her behind the big door that separated Winterfell from the wilderness. He had insisted on accompanying her, but wanting the privacy she couldn’t allow herself before, she explicitly commanded to be left alone. And she _was_ alone, for the body that lied on the pyre in front of her was no company anymore. 

Since he was a traitor, she had given order of burning him – _it –_ outside Winterfell. She didn’t want to see it once it happened, though; she had had enough during the trial, she didn’t want to watch and _smell_ his flesh being consumed by the flames and turned into ashes. The pyre was small, just enough for a small man like him. She stepped closer and stared at the body of Petyr Baelish as if watching it for the first time.

It looked as if he were resting. Eyes closed, lips parted, face relaxed, except that there was no breathing, or snoring, or movement at all. It was strange seeing him so peaceful, so harmless; she had never even seen him asleep, so it was a curious sight indeed. Sansa could not take her eyes away from his face. _Do all dead men look this innocent?_ She wondered, though she knew they did not. Still, he looked old, even worn out, as if what for her had been seven years, for him it had been seven and ten. The absence of his mischievous smirk and his intense grey-blue eyes robbed him of his usual youthfulness. The grey in his hair had expanded – the temples now turned white as snow – as well as his facial hair. The eye bags and the crinkles, the bit of dewlap under his chin, were all little things that made her wonder how old he was exactly. She knew he was a couple of years younger than her lady mother, and that he was about five and ten by the time he left Riverrun, so he must have been in his early forties. _More than two decades older than me._

 The fatal wound was almost hidden under the high collar of his cloak. Admiring the heavy, cozy material, Sansa knew it couldn’t be wasted in winter. Her long fingers lightly caressed the soft fur around his neck. Then, with extreme delicacy, she unfastened the silver mockingbird pin and took it off. She slowly opened down the cloak, revealing a flash of gold under the black. Sansa breathed in deeply and slipped one sleeve off, grabbing his arm in the process, and then the other. She handled the slender limbs carefully, as if afraid that they might break off. In order remove the cloak, she had to lift up his upper body. He wasn’t that heavy for a grown man, but his dead weight was making it hard for her nonetheless. The easy way would have been asking one of her men to do the job, but for some reason Sansa didn’t want anyone else touching him. So there she was, with one arm around his waist, and one hand at the back of his naked neck, protecting his head of falling back in the process – of falling _off_ – but apparently the wound wasn’t that deep. When she finally managed to take the heavy cloak, she placed his torso carefully back down on the pyre. Folding the cloak against her chest, Sansa remembered she used to wear one identical, given by him, not so long ago. She could recall the weight, texture, temperature and even the smell of it. Absently, she breathed in the material and detected a mixture of blood and what she could only describe as Lord Baelish’s scent. _The last time I wore a cloak like this, I was being offered to the Boltons –_ a reminder brought her back. She placed the black clothing on the white snow and looked back at the body.

The underrobe was golden and tied up by laces, revealing only a bit of his collarbone. A thing too pretty to be hidden under the black cloak – the underrobe, not his collarbone-, and more like an attire to wear on summertime, strange thing giving the fact that Lord Baelish wasn’t accustomed to the North’s cold weather. Maybe he did have a need of feeling fancy and elegant, even if no one ever saw the underclothes. The pallor of that spot of skin hadn’t been stained by the blood. But a glimpse of pink caught Sansa’s attention. Suddenly, she knew what it was. She had heard the story, Lord Baelish himself had told her about it. She had never _seen_ it though, so she couldn’t know for sure if he had exaggerated, or even lied. Curiosity got the best of her, and Sansa’s fingers were at the first golden lace, even though she knew it was wrong. But she didn’t think he would have minded. _This is what he wanted me to do all this time, isn’t it?_ She told herself as she unfastened the second lace. _This is what he would have done if it was me lying here..._ she stopped at the lace over his lower abdomen.

Sansa gasped.

It was a gruesome sight. The scar was just like he had told her, but worse than she imagined: a lumpy, nasty trail of risen skin, prominent and long, from collarbone to navel. Not one of Sansa’s multiple scars was so awful. This was the mark of a strike that had meant to kill him, but for some twist of fate, did not. Sansa’s mind horrified as she thought of her own uncle Brandon, a young man by then, cutting down an adolescent boy, and was glad that she had never met him. She thought of her mother, a girl of her age at the time, witnessing the duel, watching this boy she had loved as a brother being almost killed… and being herself the reason for that duel in the first place. _How many tens of thousands had to die because Littlefinger chose my mother?_

She thought of young Petyr; brave, innocent, loving and foolish enough to risk his life for Lady Catelyn’s hand. Sansa didn’t want to think of how badly it must have harmed him, the rejection, the humiliation, the physical pain. She wondered if it still hurt him every time he’d see himself without clothes on. Even in the southern summer, he would always wear robes and cloaks that covered all his body, she realized now. Did it make him feel self-conscious? Weak? Broken? Sansa herself could understand all those feelings. She remembered those words he had said to her a long time ago at King’s Landing:

_Life is not a song, sweetling. You may learn that one day, to your sorrow._

And her heart broke for him, for she finally understood why he had said that.

Her fingertips lightly touched the top of the scar at his collarbone.

“I am sorry that my uncle did this to you” she didn’t recognize her own voice as she said those words looking at his face. “If I could undo what’s been done to you, I would.” Maybe that way, she could have saved not just him, but her entire family, and herself.

_But I know that I can’t._

Feeling something tickling her fingertips, Sansa looked down and saw that her hand had moved to the spot of the scar over his heart, the skin splattered in salt and pepper hair. There was a previous moment when she had touched him there, though not on his bare skin; in the godswood when he had tried to kiss her, she stopped him placing a hand on his chest. It had surprised her back then how hard his heart was beating. Now, there was no beat at all.

Sansa observed his naked torso while ever so slowly tracing the length of the scar. There wasn’t anything outstanding about his body, just the ugly blemish. His body wasn't the type she would have tipically found attractive. But she liked that it was very different from Ramsay’s, the only thing in common being the paleness. Ramsay was muscular, toned, hard and completely hairless. Petyr wasn’t muscular at all, rather slim with only a little bit of belly, which also had its own trail of black and grey hair. Sansa’s fingers stopped at the end of the scar above his navel, and she let the palm rest over his abdomen. He was surprisingly soft, but cold as only death could be. She looked up at the new – and this time lethal – wound, but immediately felt sick, so she tore her gaze away. Instead, she focused on his right hand and reached for it with her other hand. It was funny how hers was larger, with longer fingers, though slenderer. Sansa remembered Ramsay’s strong, big hands, harsh and calloused and dirty with blood – hers or somebody else’s. Petyr’s hands were almost feminine, smooth and immaculate (except for his own dried blood on them), his fingers adorned with more rings than Sansa’s. She could recall how warm and comforting his hands had felt multiple times, and now there was nothing of that warmth left; her thumb against his wrist detected no pulse. Sansa looked at his face, not ready to let go yet.

“I never wanted any of this to happen” Her voice was hoarse, a mere whisper. There was a lump in her throat that made it difficult to speak up. “I cared for you. I really did…” Something broke inside her and her eyes filled with tears that blurred her sight.   

Sansa was tired of being strong, of concealing, of holding on. So she let go. Her knees gave up, and she let herself fall on them, beside the pyre, sobbing. She buried her face in his chest, clinging at the open gold robe with her fists, and cried into the corpse until there were no tears left in her. It didn’t matter that he was a traitor, a schemer, a murderer. She couldn’t help but mourn for him.

When she finally calmed down, she rose again. Nighttime was almost there. The guard behind the castle door would be wondering what was going on. She tied up the laces of the robe, covering his torso, and let her hands wander to his face for the first time. Sansa combed with her fingers the white hair at his temples. Then, as light as a summer breeze, she caressed his face. Brow, nose, cheekbones, jaw, beard, moustache, lips; she traced it all, as if trying to absorb every feature through her fingertips to never forget a single detail. Except for his eyes; the grey-blue orbs were forever hidden to her now. Not for the first time, Sansa noticed he was a rather handsome man, in his own way and despite his age.

“I could have loved you, eventually” she confessed, both to him and herself. Slowly, she picked up the black cloak from the snow, and gave the body one final gaze. “Goodbye, Petyr.”

Her fingers felt something metalic, and looking down to the cloak, she realized she had taken the mockingbird pin aswell. She held it in her palm, clenched her fist, and walked to the great door of Winterfell without looking back. 


End file.
